On Your Hands
by unifilar
Summary: When an epidemic sweeps the city, blame finds a way to seep into three souls. House, Wilson, and Cuddy face the death and destruction as they only know how.


_You keep watching from your picket fence.  
You keep talking, but it makes no sense.  
You say we're not responsible,  
But we are, we are._

- 'We Are' by Ana Johnsson

-------------

"Would you stop digging your heels into my poor floorboards?"

House ground a cherry between his teeth as he watched Cuddy pace. Juice dripped onto his chin; he licked it off with a sweep of his tongue. Some red residue lingered.

Cuddy threw him a glare but seemed unable to collect her thoughts and reply. Instead, she crossed her arms and glanced to the television for the umpteenth time. She could not stand still. Her left foot tapped half a beat behind the rhythm of her pulse.

_"...policemen stand guard at all entrances, and the squad is closely monitoring activity within two miles of the hospital. No one is allowed in or out, except for authorized personnel..."_

House frowned, burning a hole in the floor with his fixed stare.

"And turn off the TV. If General Hospital isn't on, I don't want to hear it," he demanded, spitting the cherry seed at a nearby trashcan. He suddenly wished that he was alone, for the combined presence of Wilson and Cuddy in his apartment hung oppressively in the air. As he settled back into his chair, he reminded himself that at least it wasn't his fault they were there. He hadn't invited them; he had found Wilson waiting in his car, and Cuddy said she had found herself in front of his apartment. He could kick them out, but he reasoned that their dependence on a need for camaraderie was as strong as his dependence on Vicodin, and he knew firsthand what happened when an addiction was denied.

"It's the only way we know what's going on," Cuddy said, and House looked to her, noting the way she was pressing her fingernails into her elbows, as if she wanted to shed her skin.

"The hospital's on quarantine, people aren't allowed near it, and all of my favorite shows won't air for another month because of that damn writer's strike. What else do we need to know?" he asked, biting another cherry off its stem. Cuddy did not acknowledge him, her eyes glued to the close-ups of her hospital, where people on stretchers were rolled into every few minutes. The footage was shaky, for the film crew was shooting from the air to avoid exposure to the rampaging epidemic below.

_Epidemic. _

_"...the status of the epidemic is arguable. Various doctors and scientists have had their input on the situation, with opposing views..."_

House allowed Cuddy's momentary mutiny. That was her baby, after all, being destroyed from the inside out.

Wilson lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a look of loose concentration sprawled across his face. He had been quiet throughout it all, hardly a sentence escaping his lips. House hated it. He hated it so utterly there was a ball of anger twisting in his stomach. He wanted Wilson to prepare a warm dinner for them all without being asked, to complain about the apartment's dismal state, to comment on the scattered bottles of alcohol, to say anything about anything that didn't have to do with the epidemic.

_"...thanks to the efforts of doctors trying to contain the disease. Several of the hospital's employees volunteered to help the ill, even at the risk of infection..."_

But there Wilson stayed, emitting no noise save for the occasional sigh.

As if to spite him, House fell silent as well. He glanced to Cuddy but instantly turned away, for she had started to shiver- from fear or anticipation he did not know. The sight was disconcerting. The newscast continued behind him as he ripped away the stem of another cherry, rolling it around his palm idly.

_"...symptoms are coughing and difficulty breathing, then chest pains and cramps in the legs. As the disease progresses, the afflicted person's limbs feel numb, and soon they are unable to walk. Bloody coughs are not uncommon in this stage. Depending on the conditions of the afflicted, seizures and hallucinations could occur. In the last stage, the ill's internal organs begin to malfunction or shut down, and that causes their death in ninety percent of cases. The reasons behind these symptoms are unknown, despite the best efforts of the most skilled diagnosticians in the area, including Doctor Gregory House, who was unable to diagnose the first known patient with the disease, a forty-year-old woman..."_

"Turn the damn thing off," House barked through gritted teeth, his posture rigid. Cuddy narrowed her eyes but said nothing, not even bothering to look at him. At this, a torrent of rage surged through him, invigorating him to lumber to his feet and stride to her.

"I said," he growled, grabbing the remote from her, "turn it off." He didn't look toward the television even after it was nothing but darkness. Instead, he fed off the anger in Cuddy's stare.

"Some of us want to be able to help, House, and that requires being informed," she said, but made no move to retrieve the remote.

"I _have_ been helping. I've been at that damn hospital for the past month and a half, doing nothing but helping. So if you don't mind, I think I'm entitled to take a break." He turned back to his chair, but Cuddy's voice stopped him.

"Oh, give it a rest." The pure, piercing frustration in her voice stabbed into his back. "When you're not locked away in your office, you're only cleaning scalpels. You hardly go near the patients."

He turned back, his eyes icy. Wilson was on his feet now, standing warily beside the couch.

"Forgive me for not wanting to catch a case of imminent death."

"Don't give me that!" she yelled, her feelings of hopelessness and sorrow and anxiety mashing together into one insurmountable storm of emotions, a storm that directed its full attention to House. "Wilson and I and hundreds of other doctors are willing to risk exposure so we can save lives. All you seem to be willing to do is sulk."

"Where were you when the five-year-old girl was going through multi-system organ failure?" House suddenly asked, in a tone that made him feel as if he was accusing Cuddy of murder. "It's our job to help every patient until we can't, but the great Dean of Medicine was too busy cowering in her office because she couldn't handle being helpless."

There was more to the story- like how Cuddy had tried to prevent the deaths of three other children that day, and how each time she had watched them die. But House ignored details that didn't serve his point.

Cuddy was taken aback momentarily, in the way a flame is knocked back by a wind. But the flame fed on oxygen, and Cuddy seemed to blaze as she drew herself closer. Foreboding hit House, for he had taken it too far.

"Don't you dare try to turn this on me, when you're the one that caused it all in the first place!" she snarled, her words echoing off every surface in the room.

Still.

Everything was still.

Fury radiated off his skin and soaked into hers. Her gaze didn't waver, but there was a shadow of remorse, hidden beneath her stubbornness. He fumed, digging his nails into his palms until it hurt. He waited for biting retorts to reach his tongue, but none came. His mind was quiet, as still as everything else besides his churning anger. When he could think of no argument to dispute her claim, he suddenly felt empty and weak. His heart sank, and he felt his long-built resolve slip away. She was right, he knew. _She was right. _

"House," Wilson said, interrupting the stifling void of silence, his eyes drawn to House's hands. House followed his gaze.

Blood red droplets fell from his fist, splashing to the floor. A cherry had burst in his impassioned grip.

He swore, hastily rubbing his hand on his pants, but when he turned up his palm, the red stain remained. Swearing louder, he tried again with vigor. Still, it stayed, imprinted onto his skin like a brand of exile. Wilson had quietly slipped away to grab a damp towel, and he held the cloth in front of House's face. House snatched it from his grasp and rubbed, rubbed until it burned, but when the towel lifted, the red stigma lingered. House's ragged breathing echoed in the silence.

"Get out," he mumbled to the wall, but they knew to whom he was referring. Cuddy hesitated but a moment then gathered her belongings and marched out the door. She would find a hotel for the night.

As she waited at a red light in her car, she upturned a hand and held it before the dying sunlight. The red light seeped between her fingers.

----------------------------

House stood alongside Cuddy. She stared ahead, taking in every detail of the street. She didn't want to forget the scene before her, he knew. It may be the last time she would see Princeton that way- calm, quiet, whole. The other residents were going to hear the news in the morning, and they would try not (and most likely fail) to panic as they were ordered to evacuate the city.

She inhaled carefully, as if the air itself was fragile. Bitter wind grazed her cheeks, making her trembling appear more natural.

"I'll fix this," he told her, the first words uttered between them in days. She looked to him, seeing that his eyes were smoldering solemnly with the fiery determination of a man who had everything to build from nothing. She resisted the urge to scream at him, to shout what they were both thinking.

_You can't be a damner and a savior._

Instead, she smiled, sliding a hand onto his shoulder.

"I know."

Wilson stepped to House's right, their shoulders brushing. House nodded at him in acknowledgement.

"We ought to get back to the car. It's almost dusk, and the hotel expects us there in an hour," Wilson said, his voice weighed down by a heavy sadness that was only lightened by the glint of optimism evident in his expression. He was the only one of the three with such a glimmer, but it was enough.

House gave another nod and turned back to the car with Wilson shuffling toward the driver's side. Cuddy stayed for a moment, wanting to breathe in the picture of a doomed city one more time. She had loved and hated this city, for reasons that stretched across the spectrum. It had been one of the constants in her life, something to fall back on when all else crumpled beneath her. Now she only had two constants left.

The sunset's maroon hue haloed her head as she turned toward the car.

**END**

* * *

**Author's Note**: This piece was done for a challenge on Livejournal, but the deadline expired a LONG time ago. So I'm embarrassed about it and don't want to post it on LJ just yet. However, I'm proud of this, so I wanted to share it with some people, at least.

I know, I know. I haven't posted anything in forever. I have a handful of stuff I can post, so I'll get to that soon. I deeply appreciate anyone who has been/will be patient for me. Thank you profusely, whoever you may be.


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